


Who Am I This Time?

by Mintey



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Amnesia, Brainwashing, Evil Harry, Evil Harry Hart, Gymnastics, Harry Hart Lives, Harry Lives, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintey/pseuds/Mintey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy remembers everything about that day in Kentucky.  He remembers the disappointment in Harry's eyes as he said, "I'll sort this mess out when I get back."  He remembers the hint of amusement in Harry's voice as he talked to the woman before getting up to walk out of the church, and the way he'd almost made it to the door.  He remembers the chaos that followed after, how Harry killed every single person inside.  But most importantly, he remembers staring down the same barrel of a gun as Harry, and watching helplessly as it went off.</p><p>Harry, though - Harry remembers nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to [ishipallofthem](http://ishipallofthem.tumblr.com/) for letting me write off of her gifset idea! The original set is [here](http://ishipallofthem.tumblr.com/post/112427834806/kingsman-amnesia-harry-au-there-is-this-young).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything, except for the writing really. All the characters, a large chunk of the plot idea, and the title all belong to their rightful owners.  
>    
> [Find me on tumblr at: eggsyunwinhart.](http://eggsyunwinhart.tumblr.com)

Eggsy sees Harry.

He sees Harry in his Kingsman medal, the one given to him when his father had died. Harry is bending down to eye-level and asking him, "What's your name?" Eggsy likes to imagine that he can still feel the way Harry had gently taken the snowglobe from his hands and pressed the circular "K" into his hands in its place. Eggsy wore that medal around his neck religiously for twenty-four years. There had been a point during Kingsman training when he'd stopped wearing it, but after Harry died, Eggsy needed to keep a piece of him close to his heart. Besides, he figures Kingsman still owes him a favor for taking the life of another man he loved. He knows he'll wear it until they repay him for that. He also knows they never will.

He sees Harry in the golden brown liquid of a bottle of beer. Harry is standing up to Dean's goons, and being ever so polite about it - being the kind of man Eggsy wishes he could be, the kind his mum wants him to be. Eggsy doesn't think he'll ever be that man, not after everything that's happened. Not now that Harry's dead.

He sees Harry in the face of his beloved pug. Harry is staring at him with a hard-set face, saying, "I'll sort this mess out when I get back," except now Eggsy knows he won't be coming back. He knows he'll live forever knowing he let Harry down, knowing he disappointed the only person whose approval ever mattered. Sometimes Eggsy finds himself wishing he did shoot the pug. Because maybe he wouldn't have let Harry down. Because maybe Harry would still be alive. Because maybe he wouldn't have to relive the forlorn look in Harry's eyes every time he stares into the deep brown eyes of JB.

He sees Harry in his dreams. Sometimes the dream will start off nice: Harry will tell Eggsy how pleased he is to work along side Eggsy. Harry will smile at him, they'll make martinis side by side like they did that last night they spent together, they'll be happy. Most importantly, Harry will still be alive. Those dreams are nice while they last, but they almost always turn terrible. Eggsy has lost count of the number of times he's woken up screaming. He watches Harry get shot over and over again, always so far away, always so helpless. Those nights, Eggsy doesn't get much sleep.

He sees Harry in his nightmares. Sometimes, Eggsy won't even get to spend a pleasant moment with Harry's memory. Harry will appear with blood dripping down his face, gunshot wound on his face fresh and raw. The horrid hallucinations aren't the worst part. The worst part is what Harry tells him. He'll tell Eggsy that this is all his fault. He'll tell Eggsy how much he hates him. He'll call Eggsy vile names and express his chagrin with such vigor that Eggsy wakes up in tears. Most of his dreams are nightmares, now.

He sees Harry in the dark circles under his eyes, the lack of color in his skin, the startling presence of bones where there once was fat and muscle. He watches his mom purse her lips as she scolds him for not eating enough, telling him how wonderful it is that he's finally found a passion at the tailor's shop, but that she wishes he'd take better care of himself and stop getting so absorbed in his work. Occasionally, she'll catch him staring off longingly into the distance and asks if there's a girl ("Or a boy, you know I'll always love you, Eggsy.") If only she knew.

He sees Harry in the colorful silhouetted targets at the gun range. Eggsy catches Roxy and Merlin trading concerned glances behind his back when he misses a shot, which is more often than not these days. It isn't his fault that he feels like Valentine, holding a gun to Harry's head. It isn't his fault that the shapeless head of the target always morphs into Harry. It isn't his fault that he turns away before pulling the trigger. It isn't his fault that he doesn't even pull the trigger anymore. He simply can't. He won't kill Harry, he can't kill Harry. Harry's already dead.

He sees Harry in the mirror. Sometimes, Eggsy will stand in a three-way mirror and think one of the reflections is Harry, just like that first time when Harry had stood behind him and asked, "What do you see?" When he turns around, Harry is never there. Harry will never be there again.

He sees Harry in himself. Sometimes, Eggsy will see his own reflection and think he's Harry. It frightens him how much the glasses, hair, and suit make him resemble the older man. Eggsy can't stand it.  He breaks down in the fitting room one day, his posh reflection crying back at him. Merlin doesn't say anything when Eggsy reports to him minutes later with red-rimmed eyes, just places a hand on his shoulder and quietly tells him, "Go home, Eggsy. Be with your family." Eggsy can't help but think his family doesn't feel whole again for the first time in twenty four years. 

He sees Harry in the fading light, standing on the balcony of his appartment. Eggsy doesn't know why, but when Merlin told him to go home, he'd found himself wandering the streets until he stood staring at the door to Harry's place. It was unlocked, just how Eggsy left it - lights still on, laptop dead but still open, bottle of Vodka left open on the countertop, Martini glasses on the drying rack. Harry, of course, isn't there. Eggsy wasn't really expecting him to be, but a part of him had still hoped. Eggsy finds himself wandering the house, not looking for anything in particular, but looking nevertheless. 

He sees Harry in a photograph. He found it silverware drawer, of all places. It's clearly old: a little bit of dust coats the top, and it appears to be of a younger Harry, perhaps from when he started Kingsman. Eggsy lightly blows off the dust and stares into the black and white of a dead man's face. Harry stares back at him with neatly combed hair and glasses perched atop his nose.

Light glints off the knives in the drawer and Eggsy catches his own reflection.

He can't do it.

Eggsy sees Harry, and he doesn't become a Kingsman.


	2. Chapter 2

Everything is harsh upon his senses when he regains consciousness. The smell of bleach stings his nose, the bright light reflects off of the white ceiling, and a steady beeping irritates his sensitive ears. He squints his eyes against the light and averts his eyes downward, noting the pristine, unwrinkled sheets. The room is empty of everything except a chair, a clock, and what appears to be a series of medical monitors. Concluding himself to be in a hospital, he identifies the patterned tones emitting from the machines as his own beating heart. 

When he presses the small red button inches from his fingertips, he expects there to be an immediate rush of nurses into the room. Instead, the rhythmic click of stilettos on tile increases in volume until the door to his right is being pushed open.

He observes the woman that enters. Her dark brown hair is pulled neatly into a slicked-back bun. She carries a black briefcase to match the dark gray pinstripes of her pants and blazer, and her shirt is a pressed and pristine white. The woman meets his eyes, but says nothing, instead walking to the foot of the bed to retrieve a clipboard. He notes a small scar on the edge of her lower lip. A larger scar on her knuckles, her right hand, with which she is holding the clipboard. A more pronounced scar concealed by the semi-opaque black of her tights.

Her eyes graze over the paper. Occasionally she pauses to scribble on the clipboard, and she flips over the page once. Without saying one word, she turns to leave the room. The man wants to say something, but there's too many questions running through his head:  _What happened? Why am I here? Where am I?_ But most importantly, he figures is, "Who am I?"

The woman pauses, her back still facing the man as she asks, "You don't remember?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

The woman turns her head and gives a cold, humorless smile. "Perfect."

The door closes behind her with a loud click. Instinctively, the man begins counting the exits in the room. His brain helpfully supplies the windows and an air vent that might be too tight a fit. A smaller part of his brain is wondering what kind of person he is to be thinking these kinds of things, and why his first instinct wasn't to check the door.

His muscles protest as he stands, almost giving way as he takes shaky steps forward. For his muscles to be this weak, he figures he must have been comatose for quite some time. The aching in his head gets worse with each step, and he finds himself leaning on the door handle for support. It is, of course, unlocked - but it begs the question: why? If he is the kind of person who counts the exits, shouldn't he be locked up in a prison, a mental ward, or a high-security facility? His head is pounding - from the questions or from the bandage his fingers find around his head, he can't tell.

He leaves the door shut upon this discovery, instead using the time alone to ponder his circumstances, to ponder himself. He slides to sit on the chilly floor. There is no mirror in the room, he observes. Odd, but not unusual. Left then to his own senses, he first examines his hands. Good hands, he supposes. They aren't too calloused, yet not overly smooth. He bends them, slowly, carefully. He finds himself making the shape of a gun with his thumb and pointer finger. It seems familiar to aim the "gun", to line it up at center of the clock on the bedside table. Wondering what kind of psychopath's first instinct is to mimic a gun, he folds his hands back into his lap. 

He flexes the muscles of his body. They all ache from stagnancy, but for some reason he has the feeling whoever he was before, he had a highly capable body. He figures he's somewhere between forty and fifty: there is a stiff feel to his joints, a slight wrinkle in his skin, and a hint of gray in the lock of stray hair falling into his eyes. His sudden glance upwards reminds him of his intense headache, which had ceased at his sitting on the linoleum floor. His hand slowly rises to feel the bandage around his head.

They're firmly wrapped, with the raised bump of what he assumes to be a combination of a cotton swab and swelling.  _Concussion_  briefly comes to mind. The symptoms are there: headaches, sensitivity to light, not thinking clearly. There's more to it though, he can tell.

Remembering the clipboard, he struggles to stand once again. The doorknob provides more aid than his pride would like to admit. His effort is for naught, though, because the file contains nothing useful. He scans it and commits as much of it to memory as possible.

_South Glade._

_Patient G. -_   _H.H._

_Expected memory loss._

_04/25/2015 - Patient conscious. Appears disoriented. Sedated._

The word  _sedated_  echos in his mind. He notes the small pin-prick dots along his forearm. Injection sites. Sedated with what, it doesn't say - he returns to pondering the mental ward theory. Then again, wouldn't they have left him in a more secure,  _locked_ , room? He decides the best course of action is to explore outside of his room. How far he'll be able to go, he has no idea, but that larger (and increasingly concerning) part of his brain is telling him he needs to survey his containment.

Before leaving the room, he unties the pen from the clipboard. He takes the string as well as the pen. Holding it in his palm, pressed close against his arm, he ventures to the door. Upon opening it, he notes the lack of activity. The hall way is as clean as his room. White walls and tile floors continue to either side of him. Doors exactly like the one he just exited are scattered along the way. Peeking into each as he goes, he finds them either empty or with the windows opaque. His admittance to a mental ward is seeming more and more plausible. That is, until he spots a cracked door around the corner. The pen is a comforting weight in his hand. He pushes the door open with his left hand, and what he finds is not what he expected. 

The walls are wooden. Soft, warm light pours from a simple lamp on a polished wooden table next to the door, casting the room with faint shadows and giving it a comforting feel. Two bookcases sit side by side on the far wall. A mix of old hardcovers and shiny volumes line the shelves, the labels varying in topic. A potted plant sits in the opposing corner, green leaves reaching towards the sole source of light. In the middle of the room sits two leather chairs situated on either side of a small round table. One is occupied.

Her gaze trained on the hand concealing the pen, the woman from before sits in the chair, exuding power with her crossed ankles and a relaxed pose. "I assure you there will be no need for that, Mr. Hart," is how she greets him. The man checks behind him. No one else is there. "You did ask who you were," she comments upon noting his confusion. She averts her gaze to the drink clasped lazily in her left hand.

Mr. Hart stands in the doorway, unsure of his next move. He doubts he could get very far with just a pen - besides, he has no idea where he is, and no idea  _what_  he is. This woman is his only hope. She continues to study him as she takes a sip of her drink. He takes a step forward into the room. _  
_

"Excellent choice, but it is nice to know you have the right instincts still in tact." He wonders what the proper response is to a statement like that, but the woman once again fills the silence. "Close the door." He obliges. "Now, take a seat."

Mr. Hart sits in the chair. The leather creaks, and he sits upright, feeling it too improper to lean so leisurely in the current situation. Mr. Hart, if that really is his name - but then again, why would this woman have cause to lie to him - waits for what the woman will say next. She takes her time, alternating between studying him with an unnerving gaze and sipping at the drink in her hand.

"My name is Ms. Roxanne," she says, finally. Then, she stops. Eyes him up and down, almost like she's waiting for something. He doesn't know what she wants from him, so he continues to stare expectantly back. After a moment of silence, she speaks up again. "What do you remember, Mr. Hart?"

"Not much, Ms. Roxanne."

 She smiles at him, that same unsettling baring of teeth. "Good, good."

"Pardon my curiosity, but isn't an incident in which one receives a blow to the head and remembers nothing often considered to be poor medical progress?"

"Mr. Hart, you did not receive a blow to the head. You received something else to the head, and I think it's best if you not know just what quite yet. The less you remember, the better. Now, why don't you start off by telling me what you do remember?"

The word on his lips is, "Nothing," but admitting something so all-encompassing seems like a weakness in his current situation. Instead, he opts for saying, "One's first instinct is not often to find a weapon. I confess to contemplating myself as someone quite lethal. A spy of sorts, I might think."

Ms. Roxanne considers him carefully. "Excellent reasoning."

"Thank you."

"It's not entirely wrong, that reasoning of yours."

"Which would imply that my theory is not entirely correct, either."

Ms. Roxanne continues to stare at him, head tilted slightly with a hint of a smirk on her lips. Mr. Hart is beginning to despise that look. Eventually, he decides to cut to the chase. 

"Are we going to play games all day, or are we going to discuss my situation?" asks Mr. Hart. He feels a surge of confidence when the woman looks momentarily taken aback.

"Of course, Mr. Hart." 

He waits. And waits some more. She still says nothing. He is about to engage in further conversation when a loud knock startles him. Mr. Hart looks between Ms. Roxanne and the door.

"Go ahead, open it."

Mr. Hart rises from the chair with some struggle and makes his way to the door. He opens it to find a finely dressed man holding a black garment bag.

"For you, Mr. Hart," Ms. Roxanne says. Handing over the hanger to Mr. Hart, the young man bows and departs. At this, Ms. Roxanne stands and moves toward the door. "It would be improper to conduct a meeting in public with you dressed like that," she says.

He considers his light blue hospital clothing. The soft cotton made him feel exposed, and he was relieved to know he would finally be getting out of them. Besides, they only served to remind him of the blasted head injury that was preventing him from remembering anything. 

"Shame. I rather liked these," he quips sarcastically, picking at the fabric.

"I think you'll like your new attire marginally more, Mr. Hart." She looks him up and down once more, then says, "You'll find an address in your left pocket. Meet me there at noon, and don't be late." With that, she sets her empty glass on the table. She stands up, straightens her blazer, and exits the room.

Mr. Hart is once again left alone. He unzips the garment bag to find a gray tie draped around the hanger carrying a simple black suit - single breasted, two buttons, nothing too extravagant. As far as suits go, he has the notion that this one is quite expensive, yet at the same time, he can't help but think it's... well... shit. 

Mr. Hart tells Ms. Roxanne this much when he meets her at the address on the paper. "I much rather prefer double-breasted suits," Mr. Hart says, taking a seat.

He had discovered quite a bit as he left his former residence. It hadn't been a hospital at all, he discovered upon leaving - it was an abandoned office building towards the outskirts of town. Mr. Hart figures that as far as maintaining secrecy goes, the building is an alright choice. Personally he prefers the cover of plain sight -  _w_ ho know's where  _that_  notion came from - and couldn't help but think a busy office building in the center of town would have been more ideal. He asked for directions along the way to the address Ms. Roxanne had given him: a small cafe in the heart of the city. Lexington, judging by the paper he saw a man reading along the way. The date had read May 3rd, which made him wonder how long he had been unconscious for. 

There is a small clatter as Ms. Roxanne fumbles with her teaspoon. The noise brings Mr. Hart back to the present just in time to hear her ask, "And why would that be?"

Truthfully, Mr. Hart can't say he really knows why. Just like all the other funny feelings he's been getting lately, he just thinks he might have preferred them in a past life. After all, they're more becoming of a gentleman in his opinion. Mr. Hart turns his attention fully to Ms. Roxanne with the intention of squeezing more information out of her. "Lexington is pleasant this time of year, though it hardly seems a favorable location for an international spy ring." 

He pours some hot water into the upturned teacup at his place setting, picking a teabag from the selection as he waits for her to reply. He tears open the paper packet and places it in the steaming cup.

"Now, now," she says, leaning forward, "Who said anything about being a spy?"

"It came into mention during our earlier conversation," he says absently. Then, looking her in the eye, he says, "And here I was thinking  _I_  was the amnesiac."

She lets out a small laugh, really more a puff of air and an amused "hmph" than anything else. "I never said you were a spy, Mr. Hart - only that you were lethal. Quite the association you're making there. Did it ever occur to you that you could be an assassin?"

"Given the choice between spy and assassin, I think I would much rather be a spy," he states.

"Well then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you, Mr. Hart."

The statement hangs between the pair, effectively halting the conversation. Mr. Hart finds himself at a loss for words - he had wanted to learn more about his former self, and had also suspected that his former job wasn't exactly a white-collar nine-to-five, but this... This information puts everything in a whole new ballpark.

"If it's any consolation, you were one of our more... _effective_ agents," Ms. Roxanne says.

It's not a consolation, not even remotely. "Ah, of course," is what Mr. Hart finds himself replying, just to fill the silence. He takes a sip of the tea and uses the lull to take in his surroundings.

The cafe is quaint, a tiny building on the middle of a street, tucked between two somewhat bigger businesses. Ms. Roxanne and Mr. Hart are sat outside, taking advantage of the warm, springy, weather before it turns hot. A few other patrons are leisurely eating lunch or sipping their beverages, some holding conversation with their companions and others occupying themselves on phones or with books. On the sidewalk beside them, people are out walking - a few appear to be tourists with cameras slung around their neck, and a handful are dressed in sharp attire, clearly back to work from their afternoon lunch break. His attention is drawn to a parked car several meters down the street, where a small dog has its head stuck out the window.

It barks occasionally, earning itself a few pats and coos from pedestrians. More importantly, it strikes something within Mr. Hart, and he is presented with the mental image of a toffee-colored pug. The pug is accompanied by a boy - a young man, rather. From the instant the image forms, Mr. Hart somehow knows this young man is important to him. He valiantly tries to regain his footing in the tense banter between himself and Ms. Roxanne by restarting the conversation with this information.

"There is -  _there was_  - this young man. I think he might have been important to me."

Ms. Roxanne frowns. "Do you remember his name?"

"I cannot even recall his face."

"I'm afraid I have no idea who that may be," she says tersely. "You've always worked alone, Mr. Hart. And, coincidentally, speaking of work, we need to get a move on or we'll be late."

The abrupt change in conversation raises Mr. Hart's suspicions. Ms. Roxanne hadn't even tried to help him remember - she had just shut the train of thought immediately down. He makes a promise to himself to try and remember as many details of this young man as possible and hopefully track him down. Perhaps the young man holds the key to his past self, someone Mr. Hart would very much like to be re-acquainted with.

For now, though, he can't let Ms. Roxanne suspect anything. He has noticed her rapt interest on any new information he remembers, and the intensity of her gaze after each admission sends off alarm bells in his head. So, taking a deep breath, he asks, "And late for what, I might ask?"

"Your training."

"Ah," he says. "To the armory, then?"

She looks up from the signing the check, an air of smug surprise to her face. "Oh no, Mr. Hart. You're a more... hands-on agent. Weapons are useful aids, but I think you'll find that the most powerful weapon is man himself."

 

* * *

 

Over the course of his training, Mr. Hart has re-found his love for the old James Bond films. Ms. Roxanne and her staff of medical personnel, trainers, and specialists keep him occupied for most hours of the day, but at night he finds himself sitting in front of the television and watching Mr. Bond save the world. He can't help but envy Bond - he thinks that he would rather fancy a career as a gentleman spy. Watching the films had brought back childhood memories of wanting to be the crazy, clever villain. He congratulates his childhood self on achieving that goal - assassin is close enough to villain, anyways.

When he's not training or watching films, he finds himself trying to remember. He thinks about who he was, what kind of man he would have to be to willingly become an assassin. Most importantly, he thinks about the nameless, faceless young man. Did this man know what he did for a living? Did this young man  _accept_ him for the kind of person he was? And, perhaps most startling of all, was this young man his lover? 

He finds himself returning over and over to this idea. It's the only theory that makes logical sense - he hasn't managed to remember any family, colleagues, or acquaintances, so what would set this young man apart from the rest and make him stick so fervently in his memory? Mr. Hart becomes increasingly frustrated as the weeks wear on and he is unable to remember much more. He is able to channel it into his training, but there is still an aching hole in his heart that won't seem to go away.

Mr. Hart is still seething the next day at training. He tries to take away the pain by sparring with one of Ms. Roxanne's other agents. The man is highly trained as well, but Mr. Hart knows he is better. With a jab of the elbow to his gut and a twist of the man's arm, Mr. Hart throws him down onto the mat. He yields, and Mr. Hart releases his grip on the man, who gives him a clap on the shoulder.

"Impressive, Queen Elizabeth," he jokes.

Mr. Hart winces a bit at the unkind nickname, but accepts the praise with a breathy, "Thank you." 

Both men turn at the sound of the gym door opening. Ms. Roxanne walks in, cool and composed as ever. "Mr. Hart, good news," she says as she approaches. "Your training is complete. Are you ready for your first assignment?"

She hands him a thin manila folder - there's no distinguishing writing on the front, no lengthy documents on the inside. Instead, Mr. Hart opens it to find a singular glossy photo. He glances up to Ms. Roxanne for an explanation.

"Kill her."

 

* * *

  

The limousine pulls to a stop in front of the venue and Mr. Hart takes one last look at the photograph of his target. He double checks to make sure the syringe of poison is secure in his jacket pocket before stepping out on to the slick pavement. It had been raining earlier in the day, but now moonlight peeks through the clouds and casts an eerie shadow on the well-dressed figures of arriving guests. 

Mr. Hart fiddles with a cuff link, unable to shake the feeling that something is amiss with his current situation. He writes it off as nerves from being rusty. Ms. Roxanne has said that he's done this hundreds of times before, so this mission shouldn't be any different. He just has to remember his training and he knows he'll be fine. Then again, he can't even remember who he is. Mr. Hart tries not to dwell on that too much. Ms. Roxanne tells him it will take some time until his memories catch up with him. Then again, Ms. Roxanne also tells him that he doesn't want to know who he really is, so Mr. Hart isn't sure what to think.

Snapping himself back to the present, he follows the crowd of people into the entrance to the museum.  His first thought upon entering is how difficult it will be to pull off his mission amidst a throng of people. He knows he'll have to lure the target out of the cluster of people and into a more private area to successfully complete his objective. Standing atop a balcony, he notes the many passages, staircases, and exits. Then, satisfied with his observations, he heads down the marble staircase to mingle with the crowd.

For a half an hour, Mr. Hart worries his target won't show, but then he spots her from behind, participating in a neighboring conversation. She is dressed as elegantly as the other women attending, but Mr. Hart knows that this particular woman takes the phrase "dressed to kill" to a whole different level. He doesn't know much about her - classified, Ms. Roxanne had said - but he mentally repeats the information he had been allowed to know.

_Ms. Morton._

_Twenty-two years old. Five feet, six inches tall. Light brown hair._

_Extremely dangerous._

_Mission: eliminate the target._

He excuses himself from the older gentleman he had been previously engaged with and heads over to the nearest glass-encased exhibit. Mr. Hart pretends to contemplate the artifact inside, but instead his gaze is focused on the young woman across the room. She takes her time, amiably chattering with the men and women in her vicinity, until she likewise breaks off and makes for the closest staircase. He waits a beat, and follows suit.

Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Mr. Hart ascends the staircase slowly, varying the distance between himself and Ms. Morton. He nods in greeting to a few guests along the way, still keeping Ms. Morton in the corner of his eye. She pauses midway along the upper balcony to survey the room. Mr. Hart ducks his head in the other direction, just to be safe. After a moment, he looks back, and sees that she has once again begun moving briskly towards a nearby passageway.

Mr. Hart follows Ms. Morton as she escapes the throng of people and heads down the large hallway. He sees her glancing over her shoulder. He can tell the moment she notices him, her posture going stiff and her eyes darting around the room for the closest exit. Her steps, however, remain even. Mr. Hart follows suit, pausing under the pretense of examining exhibits along the way. The crowd narrows with each corner they turn until the only other people in their current corridor is a cozy couple sharing champagne and kisses.

Taking a deep breath, he rounds the corner, expecting the assault from the younger woman. What he doesn't expect is for her to freeze under his hold - she stares at him a second too long for Mr. Hart's comfort. Refusing to allow the unusual reaction from distracting him, he slams her up against the wall in one fluid motion, trapping her with one arm and pulling out the poison-filled syringe from his coat pocket with the other.

Ms. Morton regains her composure and lands a knee to his stomach, followed by a swift and sturdy kick. The force of the motion sends him crashing back into the opposite wall. He's about to make another move when Ms. Morton speaks a single word, the word that breaches Mr. Hart's concentration and brings him to a screeching halt.

"... Harry?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own, feel free to correct anything as you see fit!
> 
> Don't worry, this isn't abandoned - I just need to finish up with finals and I'll get back to work on this (so very soon!) ~ 5/23


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